[ It drips from his jaw, the drool and sludge and blood, mouth full of Sullivan's last gift. Zephir's noises are a mix — moaning, gagging, muffled complaints, wet little splashes as he huffs and the man above slams deep and fills his throat. It's a play made to look and sound real, damp lashes as he looks up with the exhaustion of someone who doesn't get a choice in whether they keep going or not. This is just one aspect of Death that he loves so much, one of the times he wonders how he'd destroy Life. Really destroy him, then take all of existence with him.
From behind, a ghost of a body turns Sullivan's face to kiss him. Naked, somehow even larger than the real Zephir, who was too greedy to go too long without kissing him. This one can't taste anything, can't taste like anything. It doesn't speak. It's difficult to define its shape or even say that's skin pressing against Sully's back, holding his chin for that kiss over the shoulder. The real Zephir puts a hand over the merciless grip in his hair with a desperate noise. More, he wants to say. Always more. ]
no subject
From behind, a ghost of a body turns Sullivan's face to kiss him. Naked, somehow even larger than the real Zephir, who was too greedy to go too long without kissing him. This one can't taste anything, can't taste like anything. It doesn't speak. It's difficult to define its shape or even say that's skin pressing against Sully's back, holding his chin for that kiss over the shoulder. The real Zephir puts a hand over the merciless grip in his hair with a desperate noise. More, he wants to say. Always more. ]